


i'll meet you at the mailbox

by blackberry_peachx



Category: Detroit - Fandom, Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Gavin Reed, But it's okay, Demisexuality, Farmer Gavin, Gavin Reed Being Less of an Asshole, Gavin Reed is Bad at Feelings, Gavin Reed is a Mess, Gavin has a lot of Ducks & Geese & Chickens, Gavin is a Weirdo, M/M, Mailman Hank, Pining, Soft Gavin Reed, Soft Hank Anderson, T for Swearing and Suggestive Themes, Trans Gavin Reed, Yearning, but nothing really happens except :), hank is a good dude, originally posted on twitter, they're both weirdos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22364293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackberry_peachx/pseuds/blackberry_peachx
Summary: The mailman’s cheekbones pinken just a hint, brows pushing up his forehead, and he huffs out a short little laugh that absolutely does not make Gavin’s stomach flip and plummet to his galoshes.“French press, huh? Consider me interested,” he replies warmly, and Gavin holds his breath.“Awesome,” he squeaks out, and spins on his heel.--Or, a stray kitten finally gives Gavin the excuse to talk to the mailman he's been crushing on for two years. Good things ensue.
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Gavin Reed, Hank Anderson/Gavin Reed
Comments: 18
Kudos: 80





	i'll meet you at the mailbox

**Author's Note:**

> Finally it has arrived!! (o゜▽゜)o☆ 
> 
> I knew I wanted to post the thread from twitter into an ao3 doc after finishing, but reading some polls saying that threads that get too long are hard to keep up with, I kicked myself into action to get this part 1 finished! Part 2 is still in the works and I've got a few projects on my hands at the moment, so I'm unsure when I'll get back to this AU, but it's very dear to my heart and this still fills me with warm cottagecore warmth so here it is! 
> 
> Thank you so much for the support, and I hope you enjoy some of the new additions!

Gavin has a lot of cats. 

That’s the long and short of it, really. And sometimes, the smaller cats get in places they shouldn’t, as cats tend to do, and Gavin is none the wiser. Many of his outdoor cats have been strays, too unsocialized to be good fits inside a home, but most of them have been fixed and Gavin keeps warming boxes in the barn to keep them warm, feeds them regularly, gets them all vaccinated, yadda yadda. He loves them all despite the scratches. 

So, _most_ of them have been fixed. Except for Missy, whom he finds out had kittens by some insane happenstance he didn’t have the deductive skills anymore to figure out. She had a whole litter, some 8 kittens, and Gavin planned on bringing them to the shelter once they’ve been weaned, but that doesn’t mean that they’re not sneaky shits and escape from their comfy little stall in the barn to run havoc with his birds. 

Tim-Tam is the worst of them, he swears. A fluffy calico-looking mix, shrill meow and everything. 

Which brings him to the escaping part. Tim-Tam had gotten into the mailman’s bag, which is a problem of its own, considering… Gavin’s thoughts toward said-mailman. 

Gavin doesn’t know his name because he’s been too chicken to ask for the last two years, but the mailman knows his, and every time he sees him and says his name, something like warm honey trickles down Gavin’s spine. His voice is deep and rich, and it’s really unfair he’s tall and huge and likely ten years Gavin’s senior. The mailman also has a full head of grey and a nicely trimmed beard that finishes off his ‘older, experienced gentleman’ look. He’s handsome, and Gavin’s taken to calling him so in his own internal monologuing. 

So when the mailman comes up his drive one morning before Gavin can make it out to meet him at his mailbox and pulls out Tim-Tam from his jacket pocket, Gavin almost bursts out laughing before deciding that keeling over with embarrassment would be a fine way to go, all things considered. The mailman seems equally amused even as Gavin chokes on the spit in his mouth. 

“Must’ve snuck into my bag when I dropped off your package last time,” mailman says, holding Tim-Tam close to his chest and petting an idle finger over her head. 

“That was two days ago,” Gavin says through a cough. He doesn't think about how the mailman can hold the kitten in the center of his palm with room to spare. Jesus. 

“Yeah, but I took care of her, fed her and everything. Figured you probably missed her,” he says with a smile, and Gavin nervously steps forward to relieve the poor man of his silly cat. 

“Honestly, I didn’t even notice,” Gavin admits red-faced, lifting up Tim-Tam to his face so they bump noses, scolding her, “Naughty.”

The mailman hums, putting his freed hands in his pockets, and looks out to Gavin’s barn where the capons are hawing and the ducks are honking, waiting to be released to wander the courtyard for the day. “You do have plenty of animals to look after,” he concludes, like an afterthought. 

Gavin looks up and finds that he doesn’t say it in a mean sort of way, just a fact, like it’s the middle of September, and delivered like he’s seen worse things. As a mailman, there’s a world of weird shit to experience, Gavin supposes. He runs a hand over his hair and finds that it’s a huge mess, probably, since he hasn’t looked in a mirror yet this morning. 

Gavin holds the squirming Tim-Tam in his hand against his side, palm just big enough to keep the kitten from escaping. “Thank you, by the way. Didn’t have to do that.” 

The mailman just shrugs, tilts his head with an upturn of his mouth. The sun peeks through the clouds and he squints against the light, pulling a hand free from his jacket to shield his eyes, and for some stupid, unfathomable reason, Gavin is utterly enamored all over again. 

“Not a problem,” the mailman says, and Gavin feels the man’s eyes trail over him like a shower of sparks, fizzing over his scalp and down to his toes.

“Hey, uh. Do you have a minute?” Gavin asks before the urge leaves him. “I was going to make some coffee, I’ve got a French press. Do you want some?” 

The mailman makes a look of surprise, mouth turning down for a moment before doing the opposite, and with the now-silvery sunlight making it easier on the eyes, he drops his hand, and Gavin sees the loveliest thing. The mailman’s cheekbones pinken just a hint, brows pushing up his forehead, and he huffs out a short little laugh that absolutely does not make Gavin’s stomach flip and plummet to his galoshes. 

“French press, huh? Consider me interested,” he replies warmly, and Gavin holds his breath. 

“Awesome,” he squeaks out, and spins on his heel, taking Tim-Tam with him. He’ll deposit her back in the barn behind the house later, but now he has to bring the mailman inside and not make the worst coffee of his life. 

“So, Mr. Reed,” the mailman says behind him with a hint of humor, just as Gavin’s holding open the blue side door. “I’ve been bringing your mail for a few years, and every day you’ve brought a new duck to the box. Are you just pulling my leg or is that true?” 

Gavin grins and follows the mailman inside, the door clacking shut behind him. “No, that’s true. I’ve got a lot of ducks.” He sets Tim-Tam onto the floor to let her wander for a while, hoping the indoor cats don’t cause a ruckus. “And it’s just Gavin.” 

“Then I’m just Hank. By the way,” the mailman-named-Hank says, toeing off his boots. Gavin looks up at him in surprise just as he’s pulling off his own galoshes, and quickly finds out it’s a mistake. 

His balance falters and he reaches out to grasp the counter before he can eat it, and Hank’s hands dart out suddenly to steady him but by then Gavin’s dropping the offending galosh onto the mat and ducking his burning red face into his sweatshirt. 

“Just Hank,” Hank says around a smile, and Gavin swears that looking at him now would give everything away. 

“Alright, Just Hank,” Gavin grumbles, gesturing into the kitchen. “I have to boil the water, it’ll be a second.” 

Hank follows Tim-Tam out into the living room, tucking a clump of hair behind his ear as he goes, and Gavin turns to the stove, unsure how to properly… host. He hasn’t had anyone around in a long time, probably not ever, at least anyone besides his mother, Tina, or Elijah. Hank probably thinks he’s a recluse, a weird hermit out in the country with only a massive herd of geese and ducks and chickens and cats to keep him company, which honestly isn’t far from the truth, but he gets out. Sometimes. Rarely. The beard and wild hair likely don’t help his case. 

Hank seems to be unbothered, though, as Gavin watches the water boil. Peering through the archway into the living room, he sees Hank peering at his shelves full of books and knick knacks, pictures on the walls that have stuck with the house since he bought it from his mother and renovated it, humming to himself in a way Gavin can’t discern for approval or lukewarm interest. He supposes it doesn't matter. Margot and Willard come by to sniff Hank’s clothes and greet him from up on the cabinets, meowing for attention, and Hank gives it to them absently, flipping through a milkcrate of records.

Just as he’s turning to measure out coffee beans for the grinder, he hears a low whistle, and he ducks his head into the living room thinking one of his cats got into something. Only, he finds Hank holding up an old classic rock record, flipping it over with a soft smile on his face, eyes bright. 

“This is a good one,” he states, lifting a brow. “You’ve got a nice collection. Some of these I have myself,” Hank says, voice tapering off as he pulls out another record. 

Gavin feels a titter of giddiness swirl somewhere in his chest, grinning to himself. “Yeah? I’ve thrifted those for years, got an eye for good shit.” 

Hank laughs from the living room so Gavin considers that a win. 

He grinds out beans for the press and just as he’s pouring water over the grounds, Hank teases him for his too-folk tastes, even scoffing at an old pop record from the 80s, but Gavin defends his statement with mock-offense, even shares tips for finding good records. He hears Hank chatting to the cats through the archway when the five minute timer beeps, and he smiles stupidly to himself as he pushes down the press. 

Finding records he is good at, but finding mugs he is not, and the ones his brother has given him are arguably some of the worst but they’re the only mugs he has. He finds one shoved to the back that isn’t as cringey as some of the others in his collection to let Hank use, some old advertisement for ‘lube mechanics’ that thankfully earns a scoff from the mailman. Gavin almost highfives him when Hank only puts one spoonful of sugar into his coffee after inviting him to fix it to his liking. 

After slipping their shoes back on, they take their coffee out onto the front porch where the morning is cool and a little damp from the rain the night before, so Gavin leaves the screen door open to bring fresh air into the house. They sit on the wicker chairs underneath the overhang, sipping coffee in a comfortable silence, the kind that doesn’t need conversation to leven. One of the outdoor cats comes by, confident and curious to the new visitor. 

“That’s Speckles,” Gavin informs, holding his hot mug between his hands, the warmth seeping from his arms into his stomach. “He’s one of the nicer ones.” 

Hank hums and drops a loose fist down for Speckles to sniff, quickly rubbing his face along Hank’s fingers and trilling. Gavin delights in how Hank smiles and scratches behind the cat’s ears, letting his huge hand slide down the length of his spine, up his tail. 

“I’ve had mostly dogs. I have a St. Bernard at home, slobbers buckets,” Hank says. “But my grandma had all the animals. Goats, hens, dogs, cats. Even chickens,” he adds, not quite wistful, but fondly, and shoots Gavin a knowing look that roots him to his chair cushion. 

“They were shitheads, though,” Hank states with a laugh, and Gavin can’t help but smile, watching as Speckles puts his front paws on Hank’s knee, begging for attention. “Got nipped a few times trying to collect the eggs.” 

Gavin guffaws, knowing the experience well. His birds have personalities all their own. “Wait ‘til you meet Ken. He thinks he’s the head rooster but they’re all neutered so they don’t get territorial on each other, but he’s the loudest. Loves to untie shoes.” 

Hank laughs and Gavin joins him but muffles it into his coffee. He hopes he’s hiding how pleased he is that Hank is so goddamn unruffled by all of this, this bubble of weirdness he lives in. Sure, Hank’s probably met 20 of his ducks by now, having brought the escapees with him down to the mailbox every other day when Hank brings his mail, but being met by the scope of it he seems to not give one single damn. Hank’s easy-going nature is a balm, and paired with this coffee and his laugh and the cat he’s so contented to have on his lap, Gavin tries not to let it get to his head. He will swear the coffee tastes better, though.

“No shit,” Hank murmurs on the tail end of his chuckle, lifting the mug to his mouth. 

After a minute, Gavin asks, “Aren’t you on the clock?” 

“Sure am,” Hank nods with a little smirk. “A little coffee break was due, though.” And then he tosses Gavin a wink and he swears his heart skips a few thumps. 

Hank does gulp down the rest of his coffee and thanks Gavin for it, picking Speckles up from his lap and setting the cat down onto the vacated chair cushion. Gavin thanks Hank for bringing back Tim-Tam, who’s now clawing at the screen, and Hank waves him off with a humble and sweet ‘no problem, see you Thursday.’ 

Gavin watches Hank slip through the courtyard gate where his mail truck is parked on the other side, get in and fire up the noisy engine. Speckles, bereft of attention, slides along Gavin’s shins and meows pitifully up at him, but when he drops his hand to pet him he promptly bites a knuckle. Hank 3-point turns and drives down to the street, takes a left, and then he’s gone behind the shield of trees and hedges that line his property. He sits for awhile, mentally running over the last hour, rewinding and replaying, holding his mug on his knee. 

Gavin does his best to pretend the swirling tangle of anticipation isn’t new or any different than he’s felt the last few years, but recalling the way Hank picked through his records and poked at the ugly buffalo carving on his bookshelf reminds him that it _does_ feel different. Hank had winked at him, and the whole hot mess in his stomach still sticks with him. Gavin’s glad he made him coffee, invited him in, and that it all went wildly better than expected. 

A day from now, Gavin will go out and meet Hank—now that he knows his name—at the end of his driveway, likely with a new duck that will try and follow him out the gate, and they’ll chat like they always do, but now something’s shifted. Just a little, he thinks. He kind of likes it. 

Finishing his own coffee, Gavin brings the empty mug inside and picks up Tim-Tam from the fourth shelf of the bookcase, carrying her outside with him to the barn so she can reacquaint with her littermates and tell them all about her adventures with the mailman. 

\---

“Cuthbert? Where’d you go… and there’s the lovely Miss Ethel, and Kevin, Ken, Kurt and Kyle. Timothy! April, May, and August, pleased to see you this morning… of course, Lord Aragorn, lead the way…” 

Gavin loves the ‘morning rush hour’ as he’s taken to calling it when he lets his flock out of their barn in the morning. Some days they’re slow and sleepy, the geese waddling their way out last, the chickens picking their way through, some of the cats following the stream of feathers into the outdoors. This morning, however, they’re lively and excited, honking and clucking, flapping their wings and jumping over each other on their way through the singular door opening into the courtyard. 

“Shit, you really name them all and remember?” 

Gavin shouts and spins around, spraying some of the loose feed in his hand in a wide arc, startling many of the birds picking around at his feet and causing a chorus of annoyed squawks and wing-flapping. Panting, he finds the source of the interruption, very nearly tempted to throw the last of the feed in his hand at the mailman’s feet. 

“Hank! Fuck!” Gavin exclaims, shaking out the seeds from his palm. “Sneak up on a guy, will you?” 

“Sorry, it was just too easy,” Hank says through a hearty laugh, not sounding sorry in the least. 

Gavin runs his hand over his bearded cheek, knowing he must have looked like a complete lunatic. He finally gets his rabbiting heart rate to slow after the spurt of adrenaline, and notices that Hank clutches a handful of envelopes, tucked up against his hip where he rests his fists. It’s not fair he looks particularly tall and broad this morning in the silver light, before the sun has even made an appearance. 

“I brought your mail up,” Hank is saying, but his eyes are cast downward at the birds crowding around his boots. “Holy shit, you really weren’t kidding about a new duck everyday, there has to be like 50 of them. I’m surprised none of them are pigeons.” 

“Got something against pigeons?” Gavin snarks as he carefully steps his way through the geese, many of them moving out of his way. “And it’s more like 32, jackass.” 

“Geez, alright,” Hank chuckles, handing over Gavin’s mail. “And yeah, I hate pigeons. Disgusting little shit birds.” 

That makes Gavin crack a bit of a smile. He hides it within his hood, though. 

“32, huh? I was a detective and I still think that’s a fuckin’ lie,” Hank says as he crouches down on creaky knees. Gavin pauses his perusal of his mail to watch as Hank tentatively reaches a hand out to pat the back of one of the geese, Berry, who loves the attention and immediately turns her head to nuzzle Hank’s hand. 

What the fuck. 

“What are you doing?” Gavin asks, at a complete loss as Hank smiles, getting beaks poked at his shoulders, bumped into by jealous geese. 

“Saying hello,” Hank replies easily, tilting his face up and winking at Gavin. 

He wants to be unaffected by Hank, who is so blissfully unaware of his own wiles, but for some reason, this surprises him more than hearing Hank was also a detective, once. Just a simple wink is enough to undo the little semblance of control Gavin felt in his morning routine, jostling his carefully constructed Jenga tower, leaving him flushing up to his ears and clutching his stack of mail in rough fingers.

Gavin furrows his brows, watching the ducks rub up against Hank’s legs and his own but not really processing, thoughts all tangled and tipping around like lost buoys. Distantly he hears Hank chatting with the geese as he pets them, and Gavin’s eye catches the blue and white Postal Service patches on his chest and shoulders. 

Clearing his throat, Gavin’s voice is still a little gravelly when he talks. “Aren’t you on a route? Like, time schedules?” 

“Yup,” Hank replies, picking up some kernels in between the bricks and holding them in his palm for Georgia to nibble at with a happy squawk. “All down to the T.” 

“So, then…,” Gavin trails off, mouth hanging open for a second too long before he snaps it shut. 

What he wants to blurt out first is why Hank is here wasting time with him and his ducks if he’s on a schedule, but remembers the last two years, the time they spent bullshitting at his mailbox, the coffee two days ago. Gavin’s feet were sore in his boots more than a few times. He asks _himself_ why it’s any different now that Hank is wasting time, and he doesn’t want to admit it, but a little voice reminds him of Hank sitting on his porch with a mug of coffee, lap full of cat and smiling.

He likes Hank, probably more than he should. Hank’s his mailman.

But he’s here, wasting time, just to say hello to him and his birds.

“Why?” Gavin finally asks, smaller than he’d like to sound. 

Hank’s smile wrinkles his cheeks and beard, scratching underneath Rhubarb’s chin, the Swedish Blue duck ruffling her tail feathers in enjoyment. “Just felt like it. You don’t like the old-fashioned delivery service?”

Gavin rolls his eyes, fighting against a smirk.

“I’ve never had so much attention in my life,” Hank teases as he lifts his chin away from one of the bigger geese, ducks and chickens flocking towards them, the nosy shits that they all are.  
This time, Gavin does laugh. “Alright, fine. Since you’re being held hostage by my geese, let me make you another coffee.” 

Starting to step over his birds toward the house, Gavin forces his legs to move otherwise he’ll rethink his offer and the possible speculations it could induce. His heart is already making its way up into his throat ready to burst out of his mouth if Hank so much as looks at him directly. 

“Wait, Gavin, you don’t have to—“ Hank protests, hissing when one of the birds must have protested his lack of attention. Gavin looks over his shoulder to see Hank getting back onto his feet, shaking his hand out, a lone man in a sea of fluttering whites and greys and browns. 

“I’ll be right back, let me know if their ransom changes,” Gavin grins, going in through the side door and effectively leaving Hank to his own devices. 

He makes a pour-over this morning to save time, not at all peering out of the kitchen window like a creep to watch Hank meander around the courtyard, a trail of ducks behind him quacking and flapping wings. It’s kind of cute the way that Hank leans side to side to peer into the barn through the slatted windows and chicken wire, one of the cats sitting on a barrel nearby and watching him perplexed. Gavin rubs his lips together, finally tearing his eyes away to watch the coffee grounds flatten out in the pour-over cone, dark amber drops dripping away into the thermos he pulled from the back of the cabinet. 

Gavin’s been alone so often lately he’s forgotten what it’s like to have company over. His brother comes by every now and then when he’s not busy being a millionaire, helping out with chores and cuddling with the cats, and his mother probably doesn’t even know he’s built an updated barn compared to the old, rickety one behind the house. As soon as she got married to her new childless husband she was off touring the world sailing, and it was the perfect time to sell Gavin the old house after his life imploded in his face. Tina comes around to pick up eggs and milk for the co-op, but she’s busy at the precinct and being all married and shit. He’s never been able to keep a boyfriend or a girlfriend for longer than a month, slept with them even less which didn’t entice them to stay, so he’s really only had his routines and his birds to keep him company. Sometimes he finds it sad and embarrassing, usually in the aftermath of his fuckbuddy finding out he tends animals and not in a cute way, but watching Hank poke his head in through the barn door, absently petting Cuthbert’s head, it doesn’t feel too bad. 

Once the pour-over is done, he twists the lid on the thermos after hastily washing it in the sink of drawer dust, he considers the chalk marker magnetized to his fridge door for a moment. Another two moments pass and he decides he won’t have a better chance. 

Bringing the thermos outside, he finds Hank still surrounded by birds but many of them have wandered off to root around in the frosty yard nearby, though Cuthbert still escorts him around. 

“Hey,” Gavin greets him, nerves tilting against his ribs as he walks up to Hank. “You’ve been released from the gangs clutches, huh.” 

“On bail only,” Hank quips back, grinning lopsidedly. “Your birds drive a hard bargain.” 

“You’re telling me,” Gavin huffs a laugh, and holds out the green thermos in the three feet of space between them. “It’s not living this time, so bring it back whenever you want. Minimum care required.” 

Hank flicks his eyes between the thermos and Gavin’s for a moment before gently taking it from his hand, and Gavin’s not sure if he intentionally brushes their fingers together or not. Either way, it makes him quiver down into his boots. 

“Thanks,” Hank says, under his breath, his big hand wrapping almost all the way around the middle of the thermos. He still has that smile on his face as he looks down at it, the gap between his front teeth almost boyish. 

_I’m gonna fuckin’ die_ , Gavin thinks as he stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets to hide his sweaty palms.

Then he feels like he might actually pass away when Hank tilts the thermos to the side, eyes glinting in recognition and surprise when he spies what was written on the bottom.

“Uh,” Gavin chokes out, wondering if it’s too late to throw the coffee onto the barn roof. “You don’t—it’s not, it’s just—” 

“Wow,” Hank says, voice low and… warm? “It’s been a long time since anyone’s given me their number.” 

Suddenly, all of Gavin’s blood rushes into his face as his stomach falls out of his ass. “What?” he squeaks, immediately clearing his throat. “You’re bullshitting. People must… do that shit all the time. I mean. Fuck.” 

Hank furrows his brows but he’s glowing with amusement, and he’s _still_ holding onto the thermos. “I mean, when I was twenty years younger, maybe. But damn. I’ll take it,” he says, tilting the coffee toward Gavin as he grins almost slyly. Now Gavin is definitely not making up the blush that spreads across Hank’s cheekbones. 

“I’ll bring this back,” Hank adds, holding the thermos close as he takes a few steps back, never turning away. “And text you. Or something.” 

“Yeah. Or something,” Gavin wheezes, fighting against his own smile as he watches Hank go. “Let me know what you think?”

“I’m sure it’s just as good as last time. You make good coffee,” Hank replies, quietly lifting up the latch and slipping through the gate. “Do you like dogs?”

Gavin scrunches his face up, the whiplash from being sweetly complimented to being asked a sudden question throwing him off his game. “Yeah, but it’s been a while. Why?”

“Just wondering. I figured, but, just. Wanted to ask.” Suspicious. Gavin lets his smile take over but still rolls his eyes.

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” 

“Bye?” 

“See you later, Gavin.” 

“Bye, Hank.” 

“I won’t forget!” Hank says, holding up the thermos as he starts walking down the long drive to his mail truck still idling, like the thought to come hand-deliver Gavin’s mail came upon him suddenly, like a rushed act of bravery. 

Gavin shakes his head and bites his lip, making his own way to the water hose coiled up next to the barn. He looks up one last time as Hank slides his door shut and revs off down the hilly, winding roads, running his hand through his hair first and then scraping his fingers through his beard. 

He still can’t believe that shit worked. So juvenile, like sharing notes in class, but Hank seemed delighted, and that? Gavin wants to cling to it. 

\---

True to his word, Hank texts Gavin that night, texting in acronyms and colons and parentheses, but they talk well through midnight and pick the conversation up again in the morning. Hank sends pictures of his dog, Sumo, and Gavin absolutely loves his silly, droopy, slobbery face immediately. Hank’s sarcastic in a way Gavin likes, and they bounce bullshit off each other when Gavin complains about the guy delivering his hay in the middle of the week, or Hank bemoaning his mail branch’s drama. Gavin’s never been so absorbed and distracted by his phone, not since he was 14 at least. It’s kind of nice. 

And, he also gets to see Hank every other day, which is an added bonus. Gavin makes sure to stand a little closer to him at the mailbox. 

In between chatting with Hank, Gavin fixes up the barn and shed in the backyard before winter comes; mending holes in the walls, cleaning out water pans and shoveling out hay for the last time before spring, fixing the shed roof so the squirrels don’t chew through the paneling like last year. All his birds are hardy for the cold so he doesn’t need more than one or two heat lamps, and their droppings in the chicken coop attached to the barn keep it insulated and warm through the snowy season, but he does like to keep things tidy. He’s always got a handful of ducks or chickens following him around as he works, probably because they know he’ll give them the blueberry treats from his pockets. 

Roughly two weeks after lending his thermos, Hank asks about Gavin’s plans on the coming Sunday, and not wanting to sound like a complete bumfuck bird farmer since he really doesn’t have much happening, ever, Gavin tells him he’s free around 2pm. Hank asks if it’s a good day to return his thermos and bring Sumo over, Gavin tells him yes, Hank says ‘ok :)’ and that’s that. No frills attached, no running circles or drama. Easy. 

It’s part of the reason he likes Hank. Whereas Gavin can make drama out of anything that exhausts even himself, Hank doesn’t. He lets the water roll off his back, sometimes bitingly sarcastic, but he keeps a level head. Gavin used to let his anger control him, let his defensive walls be his vanguard, and it did him no favors. Talking on and off with Hank throughout the years and getting to know him now, Gavin didn’t know he would appreciate his steadiness so much. He’s infatuated, he knows it, but sometimes it feels like he’s known him for a much longer time. 

Gavin cleans his house from top to bottom Friday and Saturday, making sure to dust his shelves and organize his record collection to look pretty where it sits on the wall cabinet next to the vintage turntable. He washes the couch blankets and decides Fuck It, adding his own laundry to the list, too. He waters plants, vacuums the rugs, finds old candles from underneath the bathroom sink he can’t remember for the life of him where he even got them. They smell good, though, when he trims the wicks and lights them to test them out. Francine, one of his house cats, doesn’t like the smells so much so he snuffs the flames, but the mere appearance of the candles gives the _impression_ of a put-together normal life. He hopes. 

Sunday morning finds Gavin waking up an hour earlier than normal, brain immediately racing through all the possibilities and variables that could happen during Hank and Sumo’s visit. He repeats _we’re just friends_ like a mantra throughout the day, prepping dinner to simmer in his Instant Pot through the day, going through the motions of feeding all his animals and topping off their water troughs. Gavin ignores the time, mostly, so he won’t get caught up in circles stressing over nothing, and busies himself in the barn. 

“Alright, kids, you have to behave yourselves today,” Gavin tells the birds that have chosen to remain inside during the chilly and misty rainfall. Brandishing his nail gun, he puts his other hand on his hip to look serious. “I mean it. No troublemaking. And Ken!” he shouts just as the capon rooster dashes over to chew and pick at his bootlaces. 

“I’ll sell you! Don’t think I won’t, you fucking neutered chicken!” Gavin scolds, wiggling his foot out of the capon’s beak. Ken caws at him in retribution, postures with his wings held out, but ultimately backs off when Gavin stares lasers at him. Ken’s the oldest and the biggest asshole capon he’s got, probably still pissed from the day he did actually get neutered, but he’s probably Gavin’s favorite of the bunch. They’d match in assholery if there was a competition. 

Gavin fixes the overhead lights in the barn with the nail gun, and finally tacks up the tool rack he threw together a month ago with reclaimed wood from an estate sale a few miles down the road. He shouldn’t be as surprised as he is when he hears a rumbling car engine outside the barn, but it still startles him, and he nearly nails his thumb into the barn wall when he realizes the time. Hastily turning off the air compressor, Gavin dusts off his grimy hands and walks outside the barn to see an old blue truck just outside the courtyard gate with Hank sliding out of the drivers side. 

“Hey!” he calls, heart absolutely not going _all lighter than air_ when he sees him. That’d be ridiculous. 

Hank smiles at him and waves as he rounds the trunk front, and through the windshield Gavin can see a monster-sized St. Bernard slouched against the passenger seat, tongue lolling out happily. Gavin goes to meet them at the gate, unlatching it and watching Sumo clamber out of the truck, tail wagging immediately upon seeing another person. Quickly he’s pulling on the length of his leash to greet Gavin, too, getting his slobbery jowls over Gavin’s jeans and rubbing his side up against his legs. 

“Hey,” Hank says at last, leash wrapped double around his hand. “How’s it going?” 

Gavin looks up from where he’s baby-talking the giant dog and scrubbing around his ears to find Hank not wearing his uniform, duh. But, wow, he looks… very nice. Casual, but so good. Gavin’s tongue feels like it’s swollen in his mouth when he sees his silver hair half tied back, wearing a flannel with clashing blues and yellows but one that suits him entirely underneath his jean jacket. Gavin has to look up at him further than he usually does when he’s not crouching, and damn does he like the angle. He immediately feels his face flush deeper at that thought, unbidden and unexpected, but nevertheless true and one to pick apart later. 

“Good,” Gavin blurts, swallowing the sudden amount of saliva in his mouth. He’s always turning into a gross teenager around Hank, he’s really gotta get that underwraps. “Just, you know, keeping busy, or whatever,” he answers, running his hand down Sumo’s back and over his harness, tipping his chin toward the courtyard. “C’mon, you wanna meet some chickens?” 

“About that,” Hank huffs a broken laugh, nervous. “He’s old but he still gets excitable. Obviously,” he says, tugging on Sumo’s leash when he jerks on it, jumping forward to sniff every inch of the brickwork. 

“That’s fine, they’re good escape artists and they won’t miss a few feathers. The goats harass them enough.” 

Hank splutters and devolves into rough coughing, holding up his inner elbow to cover his mouth. “What?” Hank chokes out, looking by all means rattled. “You have goats?! Tell me you’re hiding cows or pigs somewhere, too.” 

Gavin tips his head back with a deep laugh. “No way, man. Just the birds and the goats, though I did have a horse for a summer. C’mon, they share part of the barn with the birds but have their own little gated pen.” 

Hank grumbles something to himself that’s very tinged with dismay, but it just makes Gavin laugh harder. 

Just behind the bird barn, a rounded pen of latched rails curves out in a half circle, and inside is a high stack of hay underneath the roof overhang, the pen having its own food and water trough as well as barrels and obstacles like tunnels, bridges, and a seesaw. Sumo sniffs and huffs at the fence, shuffling his feet impatiently for the pair of goats that tentatively peek their heads out of their resting spot amongst the hay. He even puts his massive paws onto the second rail and then his head is level with Gavin’s, turning to sniff courteously at his shoulder when Gavin reaches to pat his shoulders.

“There’s May, the mom, and her kid, June. They’re both Nigora goats,” Gavin explains to Hank and Sumo, absently petting down the dog’s flank and watching Hank through the corner of his eye. “They’re really nice.” 

“That’s great,” Hank deadpans. “I’m sure they’re wonderful.” 

Gavin snickers. “What, you don’t like goats? You look like you’re about to shit your pants.” 

Hank turns his unamused glare onto Gavin, mouth magnificently downturned, but it just makes him keep grinning. “They’re not my favorite,” Hank replies with such gloom and despair that Gavin just laughs. 

June the kid bleats from her perch up on a haybale and skips her way over to them, making detours through the obstacles and watching Sumo curiously. Her horns are just nubs on the top of her head, and her black and white coat that matches her mother’s is mostly just fluffy fuzz. Sumo drops his paws onto the ground again and sticks his head through the railing gaps, tail wagging furiously as June comes up unabashed and bumps noses with him. Sumo _boofs_ and stamps his feet excitedly, and keeping with the mood, June jumps and twists in a burst of energy. 

“See? Adorable,” Gavin says, only Hank grimaces at the little goat like she offended him.” How dare you,” Gavin snorts, mock-offended, leaning an elbow on the top railing. Hank keeps himself the full length of the leash away from the fence. 

“Oh, Jesus,” Hank mutters to himself as May, a large goat for her age and breed, ambles her way over to check what the excitement is all about. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Gavin teases through his chuckling like a nice person, reaching forward over the fence and holding out his hand for May to rub her soft muzzle over his knuckles. 

“Their eyes,” Hank answers with so much dread, Sumo stops his tap dancing to sniff his human’s hand. “You can’t tell me that shit isn’t messed up, Gavin. And don’t look at me like that, I’m not petting her.”

“You’re making fun of beautiful May’s eyes?” Gavin coos to the goat, scratching through her tufty beard and around her ears. “See, she’s a good girl, a little ugly but that’s everyone else for you. You’re so rude,” Gavin teases, looking over at Hank who just looks wildly unimpressed. May decides she’s bored a handful of seconds later, and goes over to the feed trough for some lunch. 

Once June bounds up onto a barrel and yells, Sumo sits down and watches, seemingly content to watch the goats goings-on, but Hank pats his head and they keep walking down the courtyard, past the house and to the barn in the back. Gavin keeps teasing Hank about being afraid of goats and the man lets him do it but not without making fun of him for _liking_ goats, even if all Gavin does with them is sell their milk and fibers. 

Gavin pushes open the old barn doors a few feet just to let themselves and Sumo inside, pleased to find all of his outdoor cats happily indoors. He’s checked and outfitted their warming boxes over the week to make them extra comfortable with felt and wool, but it’s the heating lamp that draws their worship, six out of eight cuddled together on the wide plush bed underneath the red glow with 8 tiny kittens, including Tim-Tam, meshed in between. Soon after weaning they’ll be adopted out to the shelter in town, but for now it’s working well to keep the cats from eating squirrels and birds all winter.

It’s not the cats that Hank’s looking at, but rather the rusted Shelby GT convertible Gavin had wanted to fix up a few years ago, but hasn’t had the parts or willpower to refit it. Hank lets out a low whistle as he strides up to the beater, letting go of Sumo’s leash to sniff around the barn and greet the napping cats. Gavin follows Hank, meandering behind and watching the mailman circle around the lifted vehicle, dragging his hand along the faded and chipped red and white paint. 

“You just keep hiding things, don’t you,” Hank says lowly, looking at Gavin across the roof of the GT, something in his gaze calculating and curious. Gavin inhales sharply, tries not to overanalyze that statement, but he’s right in more ways than one. 

Gavin doesn’t say anything and Hank pops the hood, peering inside to the ugly guts and shaking his head. “Yeah, she’s fuckin’ shot, though. Everything needs to be replaced.”

“No shit,” Gavin says, pulling his voice from deep within his chest, leaning against the silver headlight. “She needs a carburetor, spark plugs, head gasket, fluids. The transmission’s garbage, too. All dust,” he adds, swiping his finger over the battery covering, pad coming up charcoal grey. He wipes it away onto his jeans. 

Hank talks cars for a minute, from how he started working on his parent’s engines when he was 15, doing oil changes for his neighbors and how he got his first girlfriend by changing her tire when she was pulled over on the side of the road. It was fascinating, learning a few trivia facts about Hank, but it doesn’t fill him with confidence. He reminds himself of his own preferences, and how that could be the case with Hank, too, but… it still leaves him reeling and dissatisfied for the dumbest reason. It’s not his business, anyway. _We’re just friends_ , Gavin tells himself for the hundredth time. 

Hank drops the hood shut carefully and Gavin goes to pick up Sumo’s leash, the beast surrounded by a few of the cats sniffing at him but he’s got a smile on his face, unbothered when one of the more touchy cats bats at his nose after he gets too curious. 

“C’mon, bud, wanna see the backyard?” Gavin asks though he’s a bit more sedated, now, leaning down to pick up his leash. 

Gavin closes the barn door behind them before the cats can follow them out, bringing them around to the fence that opens up into the backyard and the raised garden beds Gavin didn’t have a chance to cultivate this year. They sit empty and forlorn, filled with old fallen leaves and grass, which will serve as a decent fertilizer for spring if he can get Tina to come over and help him. He unclips Sumo’s leash and lets the dog roam the yard as he pleases, running and sniffing around all the new places, lifting his leg onto nearly everything he comes across. 

Hank and Gavin lean against the gate posts, watching in silence but also listening to the faint songs of birds through the trees some 20 yards out, Gavin’s property extending another mile through the untamed forest. Hank rests his arm up on the post, and subtly glancing at him, Gavin can tell he’s got a soft smile on his face, like he’s recalling something fond and distant. He looks handsome enough to make Gavin’s knees feel like they have dissolved into swiss cheese, eyes looking impossibly blue against the backdrop of misty green and silver. His tongue does the swelling thing again, feeling like he should say something but anything that might come out would be far too revealing, too forced, so he doesn’t. He tries not to stare, but he’s too busy imagining Hank without a beard, cringing a little because the beard suits him too well, makes him look dignified and humble and knowledgeable. Gavin’s almost certain his beard has the opposite effect on himself. 

“This is a nice place,” Hank is saying commendably, Gavin realizing a little too late, feeling like he’s pulling his head out from underwater. “It’s quiet, not like the city or even the suburbs. All your own.” 

“All my old useless shit, you mean,” Gavin retorts, crossing his arms against the slight chill, wincing at his knee-jerk reaction he’s still learning to overcome. 

Hank looks dissatisfied by his answer, but doesn’t refute him. “Yeah. No, really,” Hank asserts when Gavin opens his big dumb mouth to argue. “I’ve always liked the age of things… if that makes any damn sense. My grandparents house had shit from the 30s, like their tractor and plow and chairs, or whatever. They were out in the middle of nowhere so it sucked taking road trips out to meet them, but it was their place and we were there all summer for a decade. They made me do chores, actual farmwork,” Hank explains, lifting his hand resting over the gatepost to scratch at his jaw, always looking over at Sumo, who’s laying down and rubbing himself through a clover patch, or maybe a dead chipmunk. 

“I miss it sometimes. And, I don’t know, this is nice, too. That’s all I’m saying,” Hank finishes almost shyly, scuffing the toe of his boot in moist dirt and leaving a divot behind. 

Gavin swallows and finally looks at him fully, feeling a bit silly from his testiness, but he’s hopelessly, recklessly enamored by everything Hank’s said. His chest feels tight, desperately trying to cage the desperate whirlpools within, wanting to both do something stupid like fulfill the desires he doesn’t think he’s ever been capable of feeling, or run away from it. Or, actually, all stupid things. It makes him feel torn in two. 

Luckily, Hank decides for him, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets and walking out into the yard to reprimand Sumo for digging into a vole’s nest. Sumo gets down onto his forelegs like Hank’s going to play with him, only to dart off as soon as Hank gets close. Distantly, Gavin can feel himself smiling, listening to Hank groaning as he lazily follows Sumo running circles around him, absently twisting the old leash in his hands. 

It’s strange to hear that Hank likes being here, too, when Gavin had the same thoughts all week. He’s still convinced he’ll scare or piss Hank off since it’s always been one or the other with his family and all his friends and partners except for Tina, somehow, miraculously. He wonders what she’d say when he updates her on the whole ‘the mailman he’s crushed on for years hanging out with him at his house _because they’re friends_ and Hank actually kind of likes his digs’ situation.

Gavin takes a heavy, deep breath, and lets it all out in gush, whistling for Sumo’s attention and waving his leash around. The St. Bernard acts like he’s interested when Gavin’s about to clip the leash on until the last second when he runs away with surprising speed of a dog his size, kicking up dirt. Hank breaks out laughing, bending forward and putting his hands on his knees as he catches his breath.

“You think he’s as old as me until he goes and does shit like that,” Hank says as they meet up in the middle distance between them, and Gavin knocks elbows with him with a sly grin on his face. 

“Watch me lasso him up,” he jokes, twirling the hook end of the leash around.

“Yeah, just like a spaghetti western,” Hank adds, lifting a brow before turning his face up into the sky, baring his throat for just a moment. Gavin tears his eyes away.

“Yeah, Clint Eastwood style. It’ll be great,” he says with injected confidence, calling for Sumo in a cheery, come hither voice he reserves only for animals. 

Sumo, panting and dripping a trail of drool from his swaying jowls, bounds towards them with his feathery tail held up over his back, looking by all means cute as fuck. A few times Sumo stops and calculates Gavin’s intent, Hank narrating his dog’s internal thoughts and Gavin has to reign in his laughter through the absurdity of it. He lightly shoves at Hank who shoves him back and Gavin’s halfway through telling Hank he’s distracting Sumo when he feels a weight pressed up against his side. 

Looking down, the dog in question is sitting lazily and leaning against Gavin, panting and surveying the treeline like he’d been doing it all along. Gavin clips on his leash triumphantly, praising Sumo for being ‘lassoed’ so easily. 

“See? Told you,” Gavin says, trying to wink but he’s never been able to. Still, it gets Hank laughing again in that warm, full way he does it, before scoffing with disbelief. 

“Yup, caught him up just like the outlaw he is, sure,” Hank indulges, and then his hand is over Gavin’s shoulder, sliding into the middle before he lets it drop. Just those few moments makes Gavin feel like he’s lifted above the ground an inch, warm up to his ears despite the chill. 

He directs his tamer smile onto Hank then, pleased to see him looking back. 

Gavin doesn't want to move, wants to keep this blip in time to himself, but ultimately, practicality pulls him onward when he remembers the Instant Pot timer. He pulls out his phone to check the time and it’s already half past 5. 

This time, on the walk back to the house, Sumo is much more subdued, like he really went on whole new adventures today on top of making tracks through the wide expanse of the yard. Hank tells Gavin that the St. Bernard only gets to see this much grass when they go to dog parks on a semi-monthly occasion, living in a tightly-packed neighborhood a few blocks from the city center. Hank runs a different route on the days he’s not delivering to Gavin out here in the country, but says that this route through the hills and the air tinged faintly by the Great Lakes not too far away is his favorite. 

“There’s fewer houses to deliver to, that’s why I… waste your time chatting with you,” Hank admits, looking sideways at Gavin but his funny little look doesn't go unmissed.

“I see,” Gavin says, biting on his lower lip and teasingly knocking into Hank’s side. “Glad to provide you your daily duck entertainment.” 

Hank scoffs. “The ducks are only half of it.” 

Unfortunately, Gavin is still looking at Hank when his cheeks start to color, so he quickly slaps a hand over the lower half of his face, pretending to scratch an itch. Hank just starts laughing, though, knocking back into Gavin’s side, and Gavin grins against his palm. 

Walking into the house through the side door, Sumo lumbers his way through the kitchen to the living room like he owns the place, knowing exactly what he might find. Hank shakes his head after him but Gavin doesn't mind at all. He likes knowing that both his mailman and his loyal dog enjoy being at his home, and it makes his chest feel both too big and too tight for his fluttering heart. 

“Do you like—” Gavin stops to clear his throat, voicebox still trying to be a fuckhead after years of correction. “Do you like the Gears?” Gavin asks as he goes to the fridge in socked feet, pulling open the door and taking out two beer bottles. Using the opener hanging on the fridge on both, he hands one to Hank, who looks at label before deciding it must be worthy and takes a sip. 

“Hell yeah. There should be a game on tonight, I think,” he answers, leaning against the edge of the counter, and now with his jacket off and hanging on a hook nearby, Gavin can fully appreciate the thickness of his waist and broad shoulders. Good god. He takes a full drink from the hoppy lager. 

“Do you—” Gavin starts until Sumo starts barking mightily from the living room and Hank’s face takes a 180 into such contriteness Gavin almost feels bad for him. “He’s fine, Hank,” he says over his shoulder after him, only Hank’s already gone into the living room. 

“Just turn on the game! I’m checking on the soup,” Gavin yells after him, still smiling to himself as Hank scolds Sumo for harassing the cats like he was a human teenager and could understand him.

Gavin turns back to his Instant Pot and finds Willard sniffing around the steaming lid, so he admonishes his own pet before lifting the old man off the counter, holding him over his shoulder so he can kiss Willards whiskery cheek before setting him down onto the floor. Popping off the lid, Gavin takes the spoon nearby and stirs the chicken wild rice soup back into creamy consistency and taste tests, immediately groaning as his eyes roll to the back of his head. 

“Fucking superb, chef. Champion,” Gavin mutters to himself, spooning two bowls full. He slices up a French baguette and carefully lays the pieces over the rim of the bowls so the soup doesn't make them prematurely mushy, pops two spoons inside and carries them both into the living room. 

Hank had turned the T.V. on but he wasn’t paying attention, too busy petting Lady who was sitting up on the couch armrest next to him and soaking in all the new attention. When Gavin sets the bowl in front of Hank on the coffee table, the man turns his bright blue eyes onto him, wide with surprise but pleased at the same time, a small smile pulling at his beard when Gavin sits down next to him, his own bowl between both his hands. Hank has a similar reaction as Gavin’s taste test when he takes his first bite, and that’s all Gavin needs to feel the pride and accomplishment make his head a little too big. 

They watch the game and complain about plays and referees, shit-talking the opposing team until they’re dressed down to nothing, but in between they bitch and moan about commercials and share easy conversation. Gavin laughs harder than he has in a long time hearing Hank’s snarky comments, far more honest and frankly more _awful_ than he’s ever seen him, but it’s fun and Gavin dishes it right back. They clink beer bottles together every good play, whenever the Gears get the ball back, or when there’s a stupid shot of some kids throwing nachos on the Jumbotron in whatever stadium the game’s in.

They finish their beers and soups and Gavin refills them on both, but while he’s in the kitchen he pulls out the giant container of Milkbones he’s kept around for Tina’s pits, finding Sumo passed out halfway on one of the floor cushions behind the couch. He sets the bone gently on Sumo’s muzzle and the beast manages to snort himself awake to open his mouth and eat it without lifting his head. Gavin finds it absolutely hilarious, and in the midst of his rippling laughter, finds Hank turned around on the couch looking at them both with fondness and disbelief. 

After eating the second helping, it’s halftime, and Hank insists on cleaning up even though Gavin tries to tell him he doesn't have to since there isn't a lot to clean. Hank shushes him and clears away the bottles and bowls anyway. Gavin pulls out his phone to scroll through it while the commentators discuss strategy or whatever—it’s all boring—Margot comes over from wherever she was hiding to curl up against Gavin’s hip, further to the right than he remembered sitting. He didn’t know he had moved so far into the middle of the couch. 

He decides not to move, and looks down to his old tortoiseshell cat to give her a half-assed wink. Margot chirps in response. 

When the second half of the game buzzes in, Hank trots back into the living room wiping off his damp hands on his jeans and folds himself into the couch with an arm over the back of it. Gavin’s almost positive he had dabbed on a little more cologne while he was in the kitchen, the warm spicy smell following him down into the couch. He likes it, a lot, and it takes Gavin a little by surprise, letting his eyes slide over to follow the outline of Hank’s profile; the strong jut of his nose, his beard, the ridge of his brow, his soft cheekbones. _He’s handsome_ , Gavin thinks, smiling to himself, recalling the old useless nickname while he’s at it. It suits him. 

He feels heat bubbling up from the center of his stomach, spreading across his shoulders, filling his cheeks. He can hardly believe Hank is here, on his couch, watching the game and looking comfortable two beers in. Gavin watches the T.V. blankly, absently combing fingers through Margot’s fur, and the rightness of the moment steals the breath from his lungs, tilts the world on its axis a few degrees before righting itself. Gavin settles back into the couch, feeling Hank’s hand somewhere behind his hood, his heat radiating in the sparse distance between them on the couch, just at once utterly pleased with the universe. 

Lady seems to have taken a shine to Hank because she curls up right on Hank’s lap like it was reserved for her presence specifically, but Hank doesn’t complain, even when she kneads the soft parts. It’s the perfect excuse for Gavin to inch forward a little to scratch underneath her old purple collar, getting her to finally curl up and purr when Hank’s thicker fingers rub behind her ears. It’s tooth-achingly sweet to watch, honestly, and Gavin’s dumb little heart does a spin in his chest seeing his favorite mailmain being so sweet on his animals (even the ducks). 

Gavin grabs them each another beer once Margot leaves him for a better spot and they pick back up watching the game, but this time he’s only a handful of inches away from Hank, and he’s pretty sure he looks Gavin’s way more often when he thinks Gavin isn’t paying attention. They bump knees cheering when the Gears make a basket or steal the ball back, or when the ref misses a clear violation and the opposing team scores penalty shots. Gavin’s thrumming with every little touch and it would be foreign to him if he didn’t know exactly why he feels his knee go electric and then numb when Hank’s hand slaps it after the Gears make a 3-pointer basket. 

“Oh, shit,” Hank says, reaching for the unopened beer bottles that still sit out on the coffee table, only noticing them after watching Willard sniff the caps. He reaches forward, using Gavin’s knee to brace himself, and _oh_ if that stupid shit doesn't make Gavin melt down to his toes. 

“Wanna see the coolest college trick you’ll ever see?” Hank asks when he slumps back into the cushions, waggling both bottles in his fingers and raising one sly brow. He looks mischievous and red-cheeked and so fucking cute all Gavin can do is nod. 

“It’ll knock your socks off,” Hank teases, waggling his brows. He puts one bottle between his knees and brings the neck of the other to his inner elbow, bending his arm and flexing. Then there’s a muted _pop!_ and Hank’s opening his arm, holding out the opened, smoking bottle to Gavin, the cap dropping to his lap.

“What the fuck,” Gavin gapes, brain rewinding and replaying the last ten seconds trying to find a moment to settle on but all of it was fucking insane and way too attractive. He shouldn’t have been able to do that so easily with an untwistable cap. How the fuck. Gavin’s always been attracted to muscle and Hank exemplifies. 

“Told you,” Hank smirks, and holy shit, it should be illegal. 

Gavin takes the bottle from him and takes a long drink, never taking his eyes off Hank, who doesn’t take his eyes away from Gavin, either.

“Think you’re smooth, huh,” Gavin flirts when he lets the bottle rest on his knee, watching Hank nearly let the other bottle slip from his hand. 

“Jury’s still out on that one,” Hank retorts with a chuckle but his voice has a lower quality to it than before. Gavin has to take another drink before he can think too deeply about it. 

They find themselves talking about other college tricks and busted parties, old and new, exciting and mundane. Hank’s surprised to learn Gavin got the scar across his nose from a bar fight gone wrong, getting his face smashed with a handle of whisky after throwing the first punch, of course. Hank got a jay-walking ticket from the cop that would later become his mentor. They dabble a little on their exes, on family, and Gavin learns that Hank’s a divorcee of 5 years. That he doesn't drink hard liquor, but beer’s fine. That he and Gavin were a precinct apart back when they were both in the force. 

Hank blushes something pretty when Gavin tells him he admired the team that busted a drug ring that extended all the way from Canada, but didn’t know Hank had lead it. It gives Gavin the courage to put his hand on Hank’s leg, if only for a moment. 

And yes, on top of disliking goats, he’s not fond of horses, either. 

The game ended some time ago with the Gears winning by a handful of points but neither of them seem to pay attention, letting the after-game family sitcoms play on low volume. Gavin’s stomach is warm from several things and his face is hurting from smiling so much, but Hank’s arm is fully behind his shoulders now, pressed right up against his neck. He doesn’t acknowledge it and Hank doesn’t make to pull away, even when their knees press up together, both turned toward each other. Gavin tries to look at the T.V. screen every now and then to ground himself, reorient his whole shit into reality because he’s pretty sure he’d float off into the stratosphere just from this. 

“Gavin,” Hank says, low and smooth, after a short silence passes between them. Gavin looks over and just barely manages to suppress the gooey shiver that runs down his spine. 

“Hm?” He hums, taking the final, groggy swig from his beer before setting the empty bottle next to Hank’s half-finished one on the table. There’s something gently playing with the hem of his hood and Gavin could reason and think it’s Francine, but he’d rather not. Hank has this look on his face that makes him both nervous and anticipating, sweaty fingers tracing the folds of his jeans. 

“Thank you,” Hank finally says. “For having me—us—over. It’s been a good time.” 

Gavin swallows, throat clicking awkwardly, but he waves Hank off with a shake of his head. “Stop thanking me, it’s just my house,” Gavin replies, unable to keep the crooked smile off his face but can’t quite look up at Hank. “It has been nice, though,” he adds quietly, exhaling a shaky breath. 

Hank hums, and the movement on the couch makes itself known as Hank’s hand finds its way to the back of Gavin’s neck, gently brushing knuckles over the fine hairs there. At first it makes Gavin tense up, eyes going wide before looking at Hank and seeing the way his face has softened, unable to look at any one place. Gavin stares and settles back into the cushions, stomach feeling like a sloshing bowl of noodles, but the roughness of Hank’s fingers compared to the gentleness he teases the neckline of his shirt with is sweet and calming. 

“Glad you like my nutcase farm,” Gavin says, surprised at the husky timber his voice has taken on. He didn’t mean for it to happen, but he doesn't exactly regret it when it keeps Hank’s hand stroking his overwarm skin. 

Hank breathes out a shallow laugh, thumb moving in small circles along his nape. “I’ve met a lot a nutcases, yeah,” he says. “Never met a duck farmer, though.” In the warm lamplight, Gavin’s pretty sure his eyes are merely a ring of blue. 

“I haven’t met many mailmen,” Gavin ponders, a touch playfully, letting his fingers move from the ripped knee of his jeans to Hank’s, toying with the outer hem. 

“You haven’t?” Hank asks, and Gavin can practically feel how tuned in Hank is through his mild surprise. It’s exhilarating, knowing he has the ear of someone he likes, making his heart throttle against his ribs. 

“Not any that I’ve liked, at least,” he answers, realizing that when he looks up, he’s tilted forward against the cushions a bit. Still casual, but noticeable. 

This close, he can watch Hank’s throat move as he swallows, watch the titter of his eyelashes as his gaze flicks down to Gavin’s bitten lower lip. 

The tension Gavin had been feeling drawing tight in his stomach finally snaps when Hank gently squeezes at his shoulder, fingers dipping between his shirt and sweatshirt, and just _feeling_ that hand encompass so much space, tilts Gavin forward even further. He uses his hand on Hank’s knee to leverage himself, but thankfully he doesn't have to go far before Hank’s meeting him in the middle, pulling him close with a soft grip on the back of his neck. 

Gavin kisses Hank hard at first, or Hank kisses him firmly, but it’s mutual in it’s sudden desperation, cloying enough to make Gavin’s head spin. Then, incrementally, it softens, and Hank’s leaning back into the pillows in the corner of the couch, taking Gavin eagerly with him so they can change the angle for something deeper. Gavin curls his hands into Hank’s flannel over his chest, gasping as he feels Hank’s fingers slide into his hair, other arm snaking around his back to hold him to his front. The air in his lungs feels tight and hot but Gavin dives in for more, kissing him heavily before he can make any sense of the relief or giddiness raking up his spine. 

Hank tilts Gavin’s head and he lets him, turning into putty in his hands and barely swallowing down the tiniest sound from the back of his throat. Hank pulls back just an inch, and Gavin opens his eyes to see what he might be thinking, only the bared and raw look in the mailman’s face makes him shiver from the top of his head to the bottoms of his feet. 

“It’s getting late,” is all Hank says before he kisses him again, sighing against Gavin’s cheek like he felt much the same way. 

Gavin’s lips burn from kissing over whiskery beard but he doesn't care, greedily taking as much as he can get while he can, mystified that this is happening at all after the events of the day. Never did he imagine he’d get to kiss Hank on his tattered old couch while the T.V. falls on deaf ears. Gavin slides his hand up from Hank’s shirt to swipe his thumb at the hollow of his throat, feeling a low hum vibrate from deep in Hank’s chest into his own. 

“Y’should go soon,” Gavin murmurs breathily against Hank’s mouth, attempting to hold on to any sense he might have left but it’s proving difficult. It might be starting to rain outside, and Gavin’s house might be 20 minutes out of town, but he’s really not thinking logically when this feels so good. 

Hank isn’t either, it seems, because he slides a knee out, guiding Gavin closer by a hand on his hip and encouraging him to sit over his other thigh, and _holy shit_ Gavin should have stayed where he was. Straddling Hank’s thigh makes his breath stutter and his throat thick, but it also puts pressure onto his packer and he’s made startingly, blazingly aware of the heat between his legs. Kissing doesn't usually do this to him, at least not with the people he’s known before. He’s wanted it to happen, has only been able to play it out in his head, but here, and now, when he’s supposed to show restraint? So fucking unfair. 

Wrapping his hand around Hank’s jaw, he can guide his mouth up to meet his, kissing him thoroughly and deeply, letting his tongue dip between Hank’s lips, but he keeps his hips still. Even when Hank’s hand slides down to the middle of his back, even when his hand squeezes the nape of his neck and Gavin chokes on a whine, even when his dick throbs, he stays still.

And, it’s fucking incredible regardless. 

Hank has the power to kiss him stupid and he takes full advantage, laughing against Gavin’s mouth when he tries to tell Hank he should go again, only the words come out half-formed and stilted. He’s sweet on Gavin, nosing into his cheek as he kisses over his jaw, twirling fingers in the curls behind Gavin’s ear, running his hand up and down his back as they trade wet and soft kisses.

“M’sorry,” Gavin mutters against Hank’s lips, blearily straightening out his collar with one hand, chasing after his breath to temper himself. “I should get up. It’s late.” 

“S’fine,” Hank whispers, honey-sweet, bumping their noses together. “I kinda like this. Kinda wanted to kiss you the last time, too, but then you did the good thing and gave me your number instead,” he admits with a small chuckle, and if that doesn’t flip Gavin’s heart upside down he doesn’t know what would. 

“I woulda let you,” Gavin answers, voice taking on its own blissful tone, eyes half shut as his thumb brushes over thin wrinkles under Hanks eye. “I used to call you handsome in my head before I knew you were Hank.” 

“Wow,” Hank whistles lowly, but it’s barely a whistle with the little amount of space between them. Luckily he doesn't give Gavin time to be embarrassed about the reveal. “That’s kinda cute.” 

Gavin scoffs and shoves lightly at Hank’s shoulder, rolling his eyes as the man laughs. 

Gavin does eventually slide off and pull Hank up to stand, but by the time Hank gets his boots and jacket on and Sumo woken up from his beauty sleep, it’s raining hard outside, pouring down in sheets. Luckily Hank parked his truck relatively nearby, but through mud and windy rain, they weren’t going to keep dry. 

At the front door, Gavin gives Hank an umbrella as good as any, and Hank takes it before laughing again. 

“Another thing to bring back to you, huh?” Hank teases gently as he turns it over, but looking at him Gavin can see he’s actually touched by it. It makes him smile even as he purposefully zips up Hank’s jacket to his chin. 

“You better. It’s my favorite one,” Gavin retorts, smoothing his hands out over Hank’s chest and shoulders, going quiet. 

“We should… do this again sometime,” Hank says, just as hushed, free hand toying with the string from Gavin’s sweatshirt hood. 

“Yeah. I’d like that,” he replies, kind of enjoying how far he has to look up at Hank. He likes it even better when Hank thumbs his whiskery chin, guiding his mouth up to Hank’s for one last lingering kiss.

“See you tomorrow?” Hank asks, whisper-soft. 

“I’ll be at the mailbox.” 

Gavin watches Hank and Sumo race across the front lawn, into the courtyard, through the gate, and finally into Hank’s truck from the safety of his porch, feeling like his socked feet aren’t quite touching the wood. Once Hank revs his truck and his headlights are on, Gavin waves goodbye and goes inside before he can watch Hank disappear down his drive, knowing he’ll be just as glad to see him tomorrow as he was today. 

Back inside, standing on his threshold, he rubs his swollen lips together to remember the sensation of Hank’s mouth on his and the graze of his beard, the house feeling far too wide and quiet even as the T.V. keeps running late-night commercials. Gavin goes to sit back on the couch aimlessly, Francine hopping up to cuddle him after a long night of neglect, meowing and purring at him but he’s only half-invested in his needy cats’ petting routine. 

Gavin grins, leaning back against the pillows, and lets the floaty feeling crawl up his legs and into his chest, reeling from it all. It’s been a long, long time since he’s felt like this, all the other times leaving him empty and feeling like a liar for faking everything, but he doesn’t feel that way now, with Hank. He feels good, even if his boxers are uncomfortably damp. And, it’s almost comforting to note that they’re not _just_ friends. Mostly.

Still, when his phone vibrates in his pocket not 30 minutes later with a text message image of a sopping wet Sumo sitting on a towel, the caption underneath laying out Sumo’s near-escape attempt from the truck to Hank’s house in outraged detail, he holds onto that feeling. He might even save the image, too.

**Author's Note:**

> *gasp* And they Started Dating. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!!


End file.
